The newest Glader
by A Once Told Story
Summary: You wake up in the Box and is spit out into the Glade, surrounded by boys who has gone through the same thing you are — memory loss, panic, fear. What do you do? Who will you befriend? And will you survive to help bring the Gladers one step closer to solving the Maze? (Choose-your-adventure, continuous writing)
1. First impression

**This is a choose-your-own-adventure kind of story. You, the reader, will at the end of every chapter decide between two options, write the option that suits you best in a review, and when an option has reached FIVE reviews I will continue the story in that direction.**

**I hope you enjoy your time in the Maze!**

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><p>I<p>

**FIRST IMPRESSION**

You don't remember your name.

That's the first thing your disoriented mind can process. You are aware that you are a boy, and you have an idea of what you look like without looking at yourself in a mirror. You do know what a mirror is. It puzzles you, that you know the looks and purpose of a mirror but you can't recall that you've ever looked into one. All of it is confusing, like every thought that goes through your head is chopped off. There's a fog in your head that makes everything uncertain, out of focus somehow. And you can't remember your name, no matter how hard you try.

As you slowly come to and the fog in your head starts to lift from your senses. Every few seconds, a high-pitched screech rips your eardrums, and there's the humming of machinery and the rhythmic whining of metal against metal. Your head is spinning violently, spastically throwing your body left and right. But your muscles are relaxed, numb even, yet the movements continue. You realize that the floor is moving beneath you, in sync with the screeching and the whining. Suddenly, every muscle in your body is on high alert, sending you jumping to your feet.

You hit your head hard into whatever is above you, and you sprawl back onto the floor. Now your head is spinning for real. Nausea takes over and you feel your stomach emptying itself into your mouth. The vomit falls straight through holes in the metal floor, down into the black pit below. You can see it now, as red lights pass by on either side at a steady pace. You are in some sort of cage, maybe fifteen feet wide and ten across. Through the cage you can see only the red lights on the outer walls, going down and down, from blackness to even more blackness. Or are you moving upwards? The more you think about it, the more the cage resembles an elevator.

Is scares the living hell out of you.

With your head still throbbing from the blow, you start screaming. "Help! Somebody help! Help!"

Your words echo empty against the metal walls outside your cage, and the wires attached to the top of it continue to pull you up. A horrifying through crosses your mind — what if they snap and the cage starts falling? Panic grips at your heart, making your brain go viral. You can't remember anything about this, how you got here or where _here_ even is. _What_ it is.

Your ascent seems to increase in speed as the whining and the humming intensifies considerably. You crawl away from every wall, seating yourself against something — a crate? It feels like wood — in the very middle of the cage. You pull your knees up to your chin and can't stop looking down between your legs at the red lights disappearing into the darkness beneath the floor.

Then, sounds and movements altogether, everything stops. You feel like you lift form the floor when the elevator halts abruptly, then you fall back down and grip frantically at the wooden crate behind you. The red lights have gone out, every single one as far as you can see, and an eery silence falls over everything. Nothing moves, not even you, and as frozen by fear as you are, you wait.

And wait. You breathe heavily, your heart racing in your chest. A clicking noise interrupts the silence far, far below you, only the echoes reaching your ears. To listen, but nothing more comes. Time seems to slow down to a full stop, and you keep looking around yourself even though the darkness is so complete it's almost tangible. Your ears register another sound, so distant and muffled you can help but think you're imagining it.

No, it's there, alright. You're sure of it.

Voices.

The next sound is so loud and close it explodes in your ears, like a sledgehammer banging into a metal wall. Hinges scream terribly as some kind of doors open up above your head. Then follows the light, so bright it is like a thousand burning needles driving into your eyeballs. You cover your eyes, too scared to think of what is going on. Your animalistic instincts to flee overcome you, so you hurl yourself toward one of the cage walls and start climbing it.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," comes a voice above you, then follows a thump as if something just landed in the cage. "Calm down, man, calm down. It's okay."

Hands brush your back and you spin around, pressed against the cage wall and your hands hitting blindly at whoever the voice belongs to. The boy — for the voice sure sounded masculine, but not very old — calls out in pain as your nails find skin and tear at it. You hear footsteps as the boy scrambles backwards, then another loud thump. A pair of hands clasp your shoulders and press you hard against the cage wall. A new voice speaks this time, calm and just slightly irritated.

"Easy!" this boy says. "You don' need to bloody kill someone. You're safe, so chill."

For the first time since the light blinded you, you open your eyes to look. In the space between your raised arms you see a mess of blond hair and a pair of dark, almost black eyes looking back at you. Adrenalin is still pumping through your veins. You want to get away, flee, hide. Everything is scary, and nothing seems trustworthy enough to calm you down. Almost without thinking, you curl your hands into fists.

* * *

><p><strong>Do you punch the blond boy in the face and try to escape?<strong>

OR

**Do you faint from the stress of it all?**


	2. Lots of faces

WINNING OPTION:

**You faint from the stress of it all**

_chosen by nataliez, amycahill5, valhallababe, superstormkatie and May a Chance. Thank you all!_

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><p>II<p>

**LOTS OF FACES**

Your heart is racing so fast in your chest it feel like it's going to either plop out of your chest or explode. You feel sweat beading on your forehead, soaking through the shirt sitting tight against your armpits. Your clenched fists hurt so bad, the knuckles white and the veins pulsating. The blond boy looks you in the eyes, one after the other, and there's a calm about him. Then you register the voices, the mumbling of a crowd. You want to look, but is afraid to let the blond bot out of your sight.

"_Who are you people!?_" you think, but the words never form in your mouth. Your lungs are too busy hyperventilating, your body losing more oxygen than it is provided with.

The blond boy's hands ease up on their grip a bit, leaving your torso free to move. Your hands are still clenched tight — you could run, fight, anything — but you don't. You just stand there, staring like a crazy person into the dark eyes of the blond boy. You can feel your head spinning; you're not getting enough air. The edges of your field of vision blur out, spreading fast toward the center.

Another face appears beside the blond boy, this one a dark-skinned boy with a shaved head and deep scratches down his cheek. Scratches... the boy you attacked. Is he going to attack you!?

You never get to know, because darkness overcomes you and the ground is swept away from under your feet. You fall, and you're unconscious long before you hit the floor of the cage.

— — —

You are wearily aware of being carried by the arms and legs, your body swinging with the movements of whoever is carrying you. But you are so tired, so very, very tired, and your eyes are swimming with salty tears. You register the smell of grass and trees, and something else that reminds you of a farm. A farm? You know what a farm is, with pigs and cows and a little cat that chases mice. But have you ever been to one? Worked on one? You don't know, or don't remember. Your head starts spinning again with all these incomplete thoughts and memories, and you slowly descend back into darkness.

— — —

"You still with us, Greenie?"

The voice hangs in the air above you, and you immediately know that you are lying in some kind of bed. The surface beneath you is itchy, and there's a thin cover over your body. You're still soaked in sweat, your clothes sticking to your skin. And the smell — it's awful, like vomit. It's in your mouth, too, a disgusting taste that burns your throat when you breathe.

"Here," the same voice says. Your eyes manage to focus on a face right above yours, with a mop of brown hair hanging all around it and a pair of bright, blue eyes looking down at you. "You think you can keep this in ya?"

The boy puts something in your hand, and when you lift it to look you find that it's a chocolate bar. It's small, square and soft to the touch. You can't seem to remember what chocolate tastes like, only that you love the stuff.

"Don't get too used to it," the boy says matter-of-factly. "We don't get much of that stuff, but you seem to throw up everything else Frypan cooked up, so go ahead. Should give you some strength back for first day. Or third day, whatever."

Still unsure about the little bar in your hand, you look back up at the boy. "Third day?" you ask with a hoarse voice. You think you sound weird, like someone else than you.

"Yeah, Greenie, third day," the boy says and claps his hands on his thighs. "You've been out for nearly three days. Think you caught something in the Box. You're all better now, though. Everyone's dyin' to meet ya."

"Everyone?"

The boy winks at you. "_Every_one."

You hear movement outside the door to the small room you're lying in, and soon the door swings open. The blond boy with the dark eyes steps over the threshold and smiles at you. "You look nice and cozy, there, Greenie."

You don't answer, only look at him for a bit. His clothes are torn and sewn together, what looks like months' worth of dirt packed into the fabric. He's rather skinny, but muscly at the same time. And even though your first impression of him was scary, you don't feel scared anymore. Just confused. So you say the one thing that pops into your mind. "Where am I?"

"Don't worry, Greenie," blond boy says. "You'll get the tour once Clint here lets you out."

Clint must be the name of the guy who is standing by your bedside.

"My name is Newt, by the way," the blond boy says. "Do you remember your name?"

You think about it, calmed by the fact that Newt said _remember_ and not _know_. "No."

Newt's smile suddenly looks a bit forced. "It'll come back to you. Eventually. I gotta go, but you..." He points at Clint. "... make sure he gets what he needs. And you..." Newt moves his finger towards you. "... go find me when you feel ready."

Then he vanishes, and you are left alone again with Clint. He doesn't stay long, though, just packs up a few things that look like handmade tools and puts the away. Then he heads for the door. "I'mma just get you some fresh clothes. You stay put. And eat." Then he walk out, too, and closes the door behind him.

You don't know what to do. Nothing makes sense, nota single thing. You can't remember anything about yourself or your family — do you even have one? You can't remember having ever met a single person in your life, yet you don't feel lonely or abandoned. It's all weird to you. You don't get to be alone with your thoughts very long, for Clint comes back and puts a small bundle of clothes on a chair next to your bed, then he leaves again without a word.

Carefully, you try to sit up. Leaned against the wall behind you, you slowly eat the chocolate bar. The taste _is_ familiar. Then, when the nausea that struck you when you sat up starts to fade, you get up and jump out of the sweaty clothes you've probably worn since you came up with that elevator-thingy. You hop into the new set of clothes, a pair of brown pants that end halfway down your shins and a dark red, long sleeved shirt. Then you realize that you have no idea what-so-ever what you should do. Did that newt guy tell you to go find him? Yes, you recall that he did. Where? How do you even get out of this place?

You take a deep breath and head for the door. It looks handmade, from thin sticks and ivy. Outside is a corridor of sorts, with walls made from the same material. Light beams between the sticks, lush and green. The corridor is short and ends in a doorless entrance. You go there, slowly as if you're not supposed to be there. You're just about to turn the corner out the entrance when a huge boy steps in your way from outside. He has to bend over not to hit his head in the roof, which is not very high though, and his arms are massive. When he sees you, he smiles broadly with sharp eyebrows lifted high.

"Greenie," he says, his voice a bit more high-pitched than you had imagined. He couldn't be very old, then. "I was just about to go see you for myself. You look like you've been through a lot of klunk, no offense."

He scans you, up and down, then his smile turns into a smirk. "Name's Gally. You ready for the tour, Greenbean?"

You find yourself unable to form words. This boy is intimidating, that's for sure, but who are you to judge? You can only remember having ever met three people in your life so far.

"Uhm... I... I was just..."

* * *

><p><strong>Do you go with Gally?<strong>

OR

**Do you go to find Newt?**


	3. The bloody tour

WINNING OPTION:

**You go to find Newt**

_chosen by superstormkatie, May a Chance, amycahill57, Mazerunnerlover2002 and a guest. Once again, thank you, and hands up to Savarra who confidently wanted to go with Gally, you brave shank!_

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><p>III<p>

**THE BLOODY TOUR**

You feel stupid for standing there with your mouth hanging open, eyeing this boy named Gally. You keep telling yourself that you're being ridiculous, that you shouldn't judge, that he's not that scary, but you come up with nothing to support it. You just want out of there, and if you have to choose between taking this — did they call it _the tour? — _then you'd rather go with that other blond kid.

"Where's Newt?" you finally manage to say. You realize that you're fiddling with your shirt, probably looking like a scared little baby, so you force yourself to stand up straight and ignore the pounding of your heart and the screaming confusion and fright that threaten to pop your head like a balloon. Suddenly the nausea strikes again, nearly sending you on all fours, but you lock your knees and work through it. You don't catch what Gally says, but you see him pointing out the entrance behind him. Without another word, you half walk, half run past him.

What lay outside is equal parts impressive, fascinating, unbelievable and horrifying. Wherever you turn there are grey walls rising from the ground, enormous walls with green ivy trying desperately to reach the top with no success. A bright blue sky is the only thing you can see above the walls. They form what looks like a perfect square, several hundred yards on all sides, and you are standing in the near middle of it. Ahead is a vast, grassy plain that ends with a small village of sorts. Behind it lies a forest that can't be too big, and behind that is the opposite wall. And everywhere you look there is one or two boys carrying something, running or walking.

"I can't believe this," you whisper to yourself.

You must look dumbfounded, because a pair of boys stop to look at you not too far away. "Oy, Greenie!" calls one of them. "If you're looking for Alby, he's over there, by the Homestead!"

You don't know who this Alby is, and you don't like that they seem to expect you to know. For a moment it makes you forget that skinny, blond boy's name. "Uhm, Newt? I'm supposed to see... yes, Newt."

The two boys, both dressed in leather gloves and aprons, come closer. "Didn' hear ya."

"Newt," you repeat, trying to sound confident. "You know where he is?"

Your calm demeanor seems to surprise the boys. They share a quick glance, then one of them points toward that small collection of huts you've already chosen to call the Village. "Last I saw him he was by the Homestead. You know where it is?"

"Yes," you lie. You know they don't believe you, it shows in their faces when they leave, but they do leave.

You head in the exact direction they pointed you, hoping not to meet anyone else on the way. Everyone who sees you stops what they're doing for a little while and looks at you, almost as if you were some celebrity or an attractive girl. You try not to make eye-contact, and decide to count them. Ten, fifteen, twenty. Once you reach the Village, you've already lost count.

You're lucky. Before you're forced to choose between entering the closest hut of the village or stand there like an idiot to wait, the boy named Newt appears from behind one of the huts and waves you over to him.

"I'm impressed," he smiles and crosses his arms over his chest, not nearly as intimidating as Gally. "Making your way here all by yourself on first day? You've got some guts after all."

You ignore that last comment, and the ocean of questions that has built up inside you suddenly flow out of you. "What is this place? What am I doing here? Why can't I remember anything? Why is this happening!?"

You've started shouting by the time you manage to shut your mouth. Newt's smile is gone now. "One thing at the time, mate. Let's show you around."

Even though the questions still claw away at your brain, you decide to shut up completely and do what Newt says. He seems decent enough, the nicest you've met so far.

"Come on, Greenie," Newt says and starts walking back the way you just came. You hope you'll get some questions answered after all.

And he starts to explain it all. You're in the Glade, a place with no purpose as far as anyone in here knows, created by nobody knows who, surrounded by something that Newt seems unwilling to talk about, with supplies sent up every week and a new Greenie (you realize it's not actually your name, just something they call the newest Glader) every month. By the time Newt stops talking and looks at you, you only feel more confused and less hopeful. He seems to notice this, and walks over to put a hand on your shoulder.

"Look, Greenie, we've all been through it. All of it, every buggin' thing you feel, we've all felt it before. You'll learn to like it here, we'll take care of ya and you'll take care of us. It's how it works here."

However little, it helps to hear him say it. "Why us?"

"If I bloody knew, I'd be shouting it at people," Newt chuckles. You smile too, for the first time in your short span of remembering. Then Newt's grin fades. "There are a few rules you need to know. Alby will probably carve them into that brain of your later, but I'll give ya a heads up. Firstly, no one goes outside the Glade, got it? No one."

You nod, uncertainly at first and then earnestly. There's a lack of light in Newt's eyes when he speak of the outside that you don't like.

"Secondly, no fighting. We don't hurt each other here," Newt says, and he looks in another direction when saying it, as if there's somebody in particular he's thinking about. "We' stick together and no fighting's gonna help us stay that way."

You nod again. You can't remember anything about yourself apart from what your thought teach you every single second, but you know that you're not the fighting type. Only seeing that boy Gally scared your wits away at first. You decide there and then to stay in the shadows as much as possible, watch and learn and all that stuff. You'll _learn to like it here_, as Newt put it.

Newt pulls you out of your thoughts by slamming his palms together. "Right, let's get you all settled in. You've spent the last three days sleeping, so you're quite expected to work that butt off now that you're vertical. Where do you wanna start?"

"Start?" You look around confused, as if there'd be some kind of sigh somewhere stating it was where you start.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Sorry, Greenie. Like I said, we stick together here, which means we work together, too. To find out what you're good at, we let the Keeper's have ya for one day each. There are seven of 'em; the Builders, the Slicers, the Med-jacks — you've already met Clint, the Track-hoes, the Baggers, the Sloppers and the Cooks. And the Runners, of course, if you count them."

You can't help yourself. So many new words you've never heard, it's just ridiculous, so you laugh a little. "What are my options?"

Newt's mouth turns into a grin, and he starts eyeing you from top to bottom. "You look like you could use a good meal, so I'd say you should start with Frypan. He's the Cook. But I think Alby promised Gally'd have you first. He's the Keeper of the Builders. You choose."

* * *

><p><strong>Do you spend your first day with the Cooks?<strong>

OR

**Do you spend it with the Builders?**


	4. Nails and nicknames

WINNING OPTION:

**You spend First Day with the Builders**

_chosen by amycahill57, superstormkatie, lortlover25879, LiadanAlice and May a Chance. You're awesome, gals and guys!_

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><p>IV<p>

**NAILS AND NICKNAMES**

Newt assured you got something, that you without hesitation knew was called a sandwich, from this Frypan guy before he shoved you off to where you are now, sitting in the shade of a lone tree on the outskirts of the small forest. You eat at the delicious mix of bread, butter, ham and cheese, slowly so that you can stay there in the grass longer. There's a hammer in your lap, nails on the ground beside you and a broken fence on your right. Hunched over it, trying to remove the pieces of a broken plank from the poles in the ground, are two boys. You recognize Gally from earlier, with his broad stature and short-cropped blond hair. He's clean-shaven and in this heat he is soaked in sweat. To you, he looks awfully grown-up for someone who is... you surprise yourself. For a moment you had thought you knew how old Gally was. You don't even know your own age. The thought sends a freaky shiver down your spine.

"How old are you?"

The other boy, named Stephen and smaller than Gally although just slightly, looks up at you. "They say I look thirteen."

He smiles, and you smile as well. Stephen has a mess of brown-reddish hair and a sunkissed complexion shining with sweat just like Gally. To you, and you have no idea why you think so, he looks at least seventeen. Then you realize the darkness of Stephen's comment — they don't know either. Just like you, they have no idea how old they are, when their birthday is. You take a look at Gally, whose biceps flex as he pulls a last piece of wood, nail and all, from one of the poles. You decide that Gally's at least eighteen.

"How old do I look?"

Stephen takes a break, wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and squints at you. For a good long while, he studies your every inch. "Sixteen, maybe?"

You find yourself staring toward the West wall of the Glade, at the entrance and the unknown that lies beyond. You remember Newt's words, telling you to never go out there, and you feel strongly that it's a rule you'll have no problem sticking to. Your thoughts then wander back to your age, and you let your body talk to you. It feels weird, like you're in the body of another person, looking through their eyes at hands and legs and feet that aren't yours. You're still scared, still feeling small and useless among all these people who seem to know enough to get by.

_"I'll get by too_," you tell yourself. Then, out loud, you ask, "What color is my hair?"

Gally sighs. "Look, Greenie. Here we work, and I ain't letting you off the hook because you're new, 'right?"

He tosses a piece of wood toward you and you put your arms up protectively. Gally's lips twitch into the tiniest smile you've ever seen, and you can't help but feel a bit of acceptance from the Keeper of the Builders. Maybe, just maybe, you can be friends.

The last piece of sandwich goes down in a single bite. You pick up the hammer and a handful of nails from the ground and walk over to the two builders. They lift a plank up and level it with the old holes in the fence posts. Gally nods your way, so you pick a nail and position it onto the wood. Then you carefully start hammering it further and further into the plank.

"Put some back into it, Greenie," Gally says. "We ain't got all day."

You hammer a little harder, but you're not the strongest of boys. "I hate that name," you say suddenly. It was more of a thought than a statement. "Greenie."

Stephen frowns. "That's what we call everyone until they remember their names."

A new chill sets in and rocks you to the core. That's a place in your mind you haven't visited since the Box. It feels empty, like a room you know, but deprived of all furniture and decoration. Deprived of meaning. You want to _be_ somebody, not just the new guy.

"How long until I get it back?"

"Don' know," Stephen says. "Took me only a few hours."

Your heart drops. "I've been here three days."

"It'll come back. That, or we'll just give you one." Stephen thinks about it as you hammer away. "Oliver."

You like Stephen, you really do, but the name sounds silly to you. Oliver. You try to paint and image of yourself and connect it with the name. It feels wrong.

"No, try something else."

This time, Gally speaks up. "How 'bout Shuckface-the-worthless-builder?"

You've bent the nail, half-way into the plank. They are rusty things, probably reused from earlier builds. Before you can react, Gally shoves you to the side, puts his end of the plank in your hands and yanks the nail out with the hammer. Then he puts another hail in the hole, aims with the hammer head and bashes the nail pretty much all the way in with one single blow.

"That's how you do it, shank," he says, inspecting his work proudly. "Now you try."

You do, and it's not so bad. You're not nearly as strong and confident as Gally, but you impress. And you do it again, and again. When all but one of the broken planks in the fence are done, Stephen calls for a break.

"Can't do no more, man," he sighs, wiping yet more sweat from his forehead. "Is it me or is it hotter than usual today?"

It's pretty darn hot, you agree. Your own shirt is soaked in sweat, drops of it running down your spine and neck. Stephen falls down in the grass, you sit down next to him and Gally leans onto one of the poles and watches the distance with a frown on his face.

"You did good today, Greenie," he says finally. He looks down at you, then crosses his arms. "If no one else want ya, I might just make a builder out of ya."

You're just about to say 'Thank you' when a bell rings far away. It reminds you of the sounds you heard when first arriving here, but it's nowhere near as frightening. The noise steals Gally's and Stephen's attention, and smiles cross both of their faces.

Stephen turns to you and stands up. "Dinner."

As if on cue, your stomach starts growling like a wild animal. The sandwich didn't do much, and you realize you must've been eating next to nothing while you were unconscious. You think about what kind of food these boys eat, but you don't care much. Food is food, and Gally and Stephen look excited enough. Gally gathers the tools into a neat pile, then walks off. Stephen waits for you to stand up. When you do, something hits you.

A thought. It screams in your head, a loud and clear call. It's a word... no, it's a name... and it's repeated over and over again.

You remember your name.

* * *

><p>IS YOUR NAME<p>

**Vince  
><strong>_named after Vincent Van Gogh_

OR

**Kenny  
><strong>_named after John F. Kennedy_

OR

**Chris  
><strong>_named after Christopher Columbus_


	5. Nick, king of the Glade

WINNING OPTION:

**Chris (named after Christopher Columbus)**

_chosen by May A Chance, amycahill57, nataliez, thegirlwiththerainboweyes and two guests._

_Thanks to everyone who voted, and to those of you who said that there is already a Chris in the original book/movie series — I did some research and I could not find anything on a Chris, not online, in the books or in the movie. But thanks for the heads up!_

* * *

><p>V<p>

**NICK, KING OF THE GLADE**

Stephen is by your side in a second. "Whoa, you okay there?"

You realise that you're standing on one knee, doubled over with your hands over your face. Stephen pats you once on the shoulder, then grabs you by the arm and pull you to your feet. You hold out a hand to show that you can stand, and he backs off, studying you.

"You sure you're alright?" he says sceptically.

You breathe, try to compose yourself. You hone in on that single thought that brought you to your knees. "I… I think I know my name." No, you're sure. Absolutely certain. You pick it apart, syllable by syllable, and it feels _right_.

"That's… that's awesome, then," Stephen chuckles. "And your are..?"

"Chris. I'm Chris."

"Chris." Stephen seems to try the name, giving you a once over. "Chris," he says again.

A sudden feeling of being exposed washes over you. "You don't like it?"

"What?" Stephen says, frowns, then gives a hearty laugh. "No, no, no, I just thought Oliver suited you. But Chris it is."

He shoves a fist into your arm, a bit too hard for your liking but you recognise the gesture of friendship. You walk together towards the Village and Frypan's kitchen. The place is packed, just like any other given day, with sweaty Gladers either waiting their turn by the tables or standing in line with bowls in their hands. To you it all seems almost a bit too _human_. You've fairly quickly gotten to terms with the fact that you do not understand nearly as much as you'd like, but when you enter the dinning area you are hit by a tremor of disbelief. All these boys, fifty of them at least, talking and laughing and behaving like… well, _humans_. Not like they all were robbed of whoever they were, sent up in some horrifying elevator ride to this prison yard of a home.

You're about to double over once more, the wave of thoughts and worries crashing into you, when Stephen's hand is on your shoulder again.

"Yo, listen up, you shanks!" he calls, several times, slowly getting the attention of the Gladers. You realise that no one's looking at Stephen, but at you. "Greenbean here has a name after all! Give it up for Chris!"

Immediate shouts, catcalls and _woop-woop_s erupt inside Frypan's kitchen. Several of the boys closest to you come up to shake your hand, pat you on the back, ruffle through your locks. When the first excitement quiets down, two boys are standing in front of you. One of them you recognise — the same dark-skinned boy with your scratch marks across his cheek. Alby, you recall his name to be. He takes you by the hand, then pats your shoulder with a grin on his face. The other is taller, much taller, and slouching. A bush of reddish-brown hair on his head, freckles on his face and deep green eyes with dark circles around them. He takes your hand once Alby lets it go.

"Name's Nick," he croaks in an edgy dialect. Literally croaks. "Welcome to the Glade, Chris. I kinda run things around here, or so they tell me." He glances sheepishly Alby's way.

You have a hard time forming words with this guy. After just one look you're absolutely certain that he is not well. Those dark circles speak of weeks without enough sleep. He is pale, but not like most white kids. His skin is ashen, a deathly greyish hue, and his cheeks are sunken in.

In your observation you almost miss that Nick keeps talking. "Sorry that I didn't get to meet you 'til now. I've been kinda out of it, ya know."

You nod, give a half-hearted smile in return. You're genuinely concerned for Nick. But as you do not attempt any conversation, both boys leave you alone. A few more people come up to congratulate you on your name. It's insane, really. You'd think a birthday would stir things up half as much under any ordinary circumstance. Yet here you are, in a big stone square with fifty teenage boys, promoted to the life of the party for remembering your own name.

Stephen and you get your plates and have them filled with potato cubes and meat patties, tomatoes and green beans. Greenbean. You almost laugh at yourself. Then Stephen has you sit and eat with him and his friends, consisting of Gally and a few others who you do not know. Conversation is easy — you're the subject of interest, it seems. The boys mostly mock your fainting in the box, and Gally adds to it with excerpts from today's working with the builders. You know that they're just joking with you. You laugh along and let them have their fun. They all seem to be deprived of fun.

After dinner you find yourself wandering the Glade alone. Stephen vanished with his friends before you could follow, and no one asked you to come with them. You don't complain. You walk slowly around the whole square, observing and taking it all in. Go through everything that Newt told you about the place during the Tour. But it's different now, as dusk has fallen. A silence has fallen over the Glade, a peacefulness you'd never imagined could exist. And in this silence, your thoughts a set free.

You're scared, yes. You feel this constant, unnerving worry about this whole thing. You've put it away, impressing the other boys with your calm demeanour, but it's eating away at you. Your pulse is up, your breathing shallow. The sensation of having your memories cut off halfway — knowing how the world works and what life should be like but without any kind of details, names or experiences — is frying your brain. And then there's that question you were forbidden from asking more than once by Newt.

Why were they put here? Newt's answer had been as short as it was clear. "No one knows."

You try to focus on anything but the bad things. How fresh the air is here. Frypan's food wasn't nearly as bad as you'd been told. Stephen is a really nice guy, so is Newt. Gally is decent enough in your opinion. You feel genuine trust for these people. They took care of you, and you promise right here and now that you would return the favour several times over.

You've been were you are now before, in front of the enormous doors on the western side of the Glade. They're closed now, like two giant slabs of cement pressed together almost seamlessly. You couldn't for your life imagine them moving, but they had. Before dinner they'd been wide open, allowing you to glimpse into the unknown outside. You'd heard them move while eating, a horrible grating noise like nothing you'd ever heard before. And now they were shut.

"Hey, Chris!"

The voice startles you enough to have you stumble forward, then spin around on your heels. You know the voice, though, before your new companion is close enough for you to see his face. Nick, sounding impossibly worse than he'd done before dinner. He walks up to you, weakness showing in every step. This guy is really sick, you think. Just then, Nick starts coughing. Violently.

"You okay?" you ask, daring to put a hand on Nick's shoulder. He brushes it off with a smile.

"I'm a'right. Like I said, kinda out of it still." He straightens up, towering at least a foot above you, and flashes a wide grin. "I wanted to show you something, a kinda tradition with us Gladers, but I forgot to bring a knife. You think you could get one for me? I don' s'pose you know where to find one?"

Although stunned by the thought of what kind of tradition required a knife, you want to help this kid. To you he looks about ready to fall over and die any second.

"I'll ask someone," you assure Nick, give a quick nod and head straight for the village.

_Or should I get that doctor guy, Clint, who took care of me?_ you wonder. Maybe not. If Nick really did run things around here, he certainly did not need the new guy to tell him that he needed medical care.

But you can't let it go. The dark circles, the ashy skin, the coughing… a sudden fear twists your heart.

* * *

><p><strong>Do you find a knife and return to Nick?<strong>

OR

**Do you search for Clint?**


End file.
